


Surprises

by RedellaRed2001



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 years after 8th year at hogwarts, Domestic Violence (in the beginning), F/F, F/M, M/M, Ministry Worker Hermione, Mpreg, Potion Master Draco, aurors Ron & Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedellaRed2001/pseuds/RedellaRed2001
Summary: “Well, it’s just...” A confused expression works it’s way onto Hermione’s face, “It’s really quite brilliant.”Ron snorts, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, “Ever the tone of surprise.”________________Don’t get him wrong, Draco Malfoy was not who he expected to meet while on a domestic violence call on a Monday afternoon. He expected even less to be inviting him to stay the night at his flat.Yet, here he was. Doing just that.As if his life needed complicating.





	1. Chapter 1

Mondays had never been kind to Ronald Weasley. It was on a Monday that Fred and George first used him as a product tester. It was a drizzly Monday afternoon that brought him his annoying little sister. It was — _always_ — on a Monday that aunt Muriel came to stay (Monday _straight_ _through_ to the next Monday). Mondays were the days his Mum would make cottage pie — every Monday, without fail. 

It was on a Monday that Hermione was attacked by the troll in the bathroom. It was a Monday the day he aimed a spell at Draco Malfoy and ended up puking slugs himself. It was a Monday that found him poisoned and a Monday that he and Harry fought for the first time. 

So when Robards let him know he had to stay overtime to cover Harry’s shift, all he could think was _how typical_. Well, that and cursing Harry into oblivion. Although Ron knew it was hardly Harry’s fault Ginny had gone into labour just before he was supposed to start his shift, he figured it was alright to blame him — and the current day of the week — for Ron having to stay behind. 

Staying behind _sucked_. 

Mostly it consisted of sitting at a desk, shuffling through paperwork that no one else wanted to do. Occasionally you’d get a call out, but it was never more than a cat getting stuck up a tree or some stupid teenagers causing trouble.

It was never any fun. The fun stuff happened at reasonable hours of the day. Criminals were right pricks to catch, but _they_ , at least, respected after-work pub nights. 

More than he could say for Ginny. 

There were so many other things he could be doing right now. Challenging Dean to a drinking match or betting on how long it’ll take Gin to push that baby out, for example. Instead, he was sat at his ridiculously boring desk with a stack of ridiculously boring files in front of him. 

With a reluctant groan, and after throwing his head back in exasperation, he reached for a file before leaning back in his chair to flip it open. 

_**Name: Samuel Greene** _

Merlin, what kind of name was that? A made up name if he’d ever heard one. Brought in for obstructing an arrest. Cussing, being rowdy. 

Nothing fun. Or interesting. 

He could just tell his evening was going to be _thrilling_. 

An hour later he’d been through six files, read through them half heartedly and given three-sentences-a-paragraph write ups to each and every one. Mione would be appalled, but he reckoned Robards would understand. After all, the only reason Ron was in the office at 6:30 was because Robards didnt want to be. Absolutely no one in the department wanted anything to do with these crappy files, least of all Ron. 

Circe, even the receptionists had all gone home, and here Ron was — like a proper moron — doing paperwork when he could’ve been at the Leaky. 

The flare of the floo grabbed his attention. The network had been set up a few years ago, when the public floo line for emergency call ins went out (per Shacklebolts command). 

Which is why Ron couldn’t understand, for the life of him, why it was flaring right at that moment. It was usually directed to the Aurors working overnight by now. 

“Hello? Hello?”

Well, since he didn’t have anything better to do, he might as well do somebody else’s job for them. 

Pushing himself up out of his chair, he walked over to the floor while trying to ignore the clicking of his joints. 

“Mrs Anthony?” Argh, great. This old bat. She’d been on the Aurors case for months now. Some stupid cat that she kept losing, “What can we do for you?”

Mrs Anthony’s wrinkled face peered up at him with a rotten scowl, the skin around her lips becoming saggier — if possible. She looked as unhappy to be on their floo network as he was to see her there, and yet here she was. 

“I moved house, didn’t I?” She looked like a right shrew as she turned her nose up him, “Wish I hadn’t. Too bloody noisy ‘round here.”

”Are you making a noise complaint, Mrs Anthony?” Merlin, as long as she left him alone he’d file as many noise complaints as she wanted. Even if it took him all night. 

Instead he received a snooty scoff, “No boy, I do not want to make a noise complaint. There’s a couple that live next door to me. Got a little boy, lovely little thing. The blonde one’s sweet as pie. Boyfriend’s a piece of work.”

”Well we can’t live people’s lives for them, Mrs Anthony.” 

“Don’t get smart with me boy.” Mrs Anthony sneered, her eyes narrowing into slits, “The blonde one tends to have a few bruises on him. Usually after a screaming match — which I can hear through these bloody thin walls I’ll have you know.” Ron couldn’t have cared less about how thin her walls were.

”You think the boyfriend’s abusing him?” The old lady might’ve been nosy as all hell and most likely making up stories, but Ron would take just about anything to get out from behind that desk right now. 

“How should I know? I’m just tellin’ you what I’ve seen.” She turned to look back at something behind her, before sending him a pointed look, “They’re at it again, anyway. Been hearing that boyfriend shout for hours now. I read in that announcement in the _Prophet_ that were supposed to call about things like this.” 

It was probably just a relationship breakdown, but it was better than sitting around here all night. 

“Can you give me the address?”

 

* * *

It was much quieter than Mrs Anthony described it to be by the time Ron made it through calling in the tip off and making it an official visit. Cold out, too, for the time of year. Where it was coming into winter, daylight hours were shorter, so Ron was stuck with streetlights to help him read house numbers.

It was a middle class street, similar to the one Ron lived on, and all the houses were mostly the same save for gardens and random decor the inhabitants had hung up. It looked like any other surburban street. 

413... 412... 411... 

Ah, there it was. 410. Top floor lights were all out, though the downstairs hallway and room to the left of it was lit up. Quiet: none of the screaming Mrs Anthony mentioned. 

But, well, Ron was here now, and he’d already called it in so he had to pay a visit. 

He walked up the cobble path slowly, tucking his right hand into his pocket where his wand was kept. He jumped all three steps at once, and raised his hand to knock on the door. 

It sounded louder than it would have during the day, considering everything was so quiet. For a few minutes nothing happened, leaving Ron to be stood there like an idiot. 

Eventually there was a creak; a floorboard, probably; and the door opened. Slowly, granted, but it opened all the same. 

And then a good ol’ Monday went and fucked Ron over again. 

In front of him, slightly battered and rather bruised, stood Draco Malfoy. 

The annoying, whiny brat from school did not match up to the man in that door way. His hair was still the same stark white blonde, yet not slicked back the way it always used to be. Longer, too: falling passed his jawline by an inch or two. Still wiry and tall, even hunched over like he was. His skin had only gotten paler; not that Ron had ever thought that possible; which only made the excessive bruising stand out. 

He had a black eye on his left side. His cheek was yellowing, presumably where an old bruise was going down, and Ron could see evidence of bruising going further down past his neck. 

Malfoy had a knuckle-white grip on the door, his entire body tense and uncomfortable. He kept looking past Ron’s shoulder, only to drag his gaze back to Ron as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with the sight in front of him. 

Other than the bruising, Malfoy was clean and his clothes were fairly neat. Not old or worn. 

He held himself differently. None of that pureblooded pride he used to have was present. His hunched shoulders made him look timid, like some scared mouse afraid of pissing off the cat. 

Ron didn’t like it, not one bit. It was kind of strange how much he didn’t like it, considering how Malfoy’s old purblood shit used to irritate him. 

“You alright there, Malfoy?” Ron could be professional, he was trained for this — even if this wasn’t exactly what he was picturing when Mrs Anthony made the call earlier that night. 

Malfoy nodded, a slight jerk of his head, but didn’t give a verbal answer. 

“Your neighbour, she called in earlier.” Ron explained, glancing over at the house next door, where, sure enough, Mrs Anthony was peaking through her windows like the nosy old bat Ron knew her to be. 

Malfoy swallowed, his eyes flickering to the door, “What about?”

”Well if I had to guess,” Ron shrugged, “I’d guess it had something to do with those bruises.”

Malfoy shook his head, “I fell.”

”You fell?” Merlin, Malfoy used to be smarter than that half-stupid excuse. 

Malfoy went to bite his lip before thinking better of it, “Yes, I fell.”

”She said she heard shouting.” Ron countered, keeping his tone even like he would anyone else, “Mrs Anthony reckons that’s a regular thing.”

”She’s wrong.”

”She is?” Ron raised his eyebrows at him, tilting his head slightly. Whoever this Malfoy in front of him was, it wasn’t the same Malfoy Ron knew. 

Malfoy nodded. Ron needed a new tactic if he was going to get Malfoy to talk to him at any point tonight, since quite obviously Mrs Anthony wasn’t making up stories as she usually did. 

“Mrs Anthony said you’ve got a little boy living here,” Ron watched as Malfoy’s demeanour shifted almost instantly, “Is he yours? Your boyfriend’s?”

”He’s... he’s ours. Both of ours.” Malfoy said shakily: didn’t like talking about the kid, so much. 

“You guys take the potion? Go through healers?” 

Malfoy shook his head, his hair falling around his eyes at the action. The pale strands against his skin only made the bruising more prominent, “I’m a natural born carrier. It’s—“

”Common in purebloods,” Ron fixed a small smile onto his face, “I know. My brother, Charlie, he’s one too.”

Malfoy seemed to ease a little at that confession, though Ron wasn’t sure why. 

“Did you need anything else, then?” The skittish look in Malfoy’s eyes almost made Ron say yes, but the bruises reminded him of his reason for being on Malfoy’s doorstep in the first place. 

Ron sighed, tucking his left hand into his pocket, “You and I both know you didn’t fall, Malfoy.”

”I—“

”I deal with enough of these cases to know they hardly ever fall.” Ron glanced around the street either side of him, “You’ve got a kid living here, and your neighbour made a call to my department, which means it’s classed as a case until an Auror closes it.”

”You can do that, can’t you?” Malfoy asked, meeting Ron’s eyes for the first time since he saw him on his doorstep, “You’re an Auror.”

Ron nodded, then shrugged, “I’m the Auror stood here, looking at those bruises with the knowledge you’ve got a kid in the house.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a few moments. Just stood there, panic growing larger and larger in his posture and eyes every second the silence dragged on. 

Ron’s job as an Auror was to offer comfort in situations like these, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to. It’s _Malfoy_. All he could do was lay down the facts and pray to Merlin Almighty that if Malfoy wanted a hug or whatever else Ron’s supposed to offer, he’d ask for one. 

“You can’t take him.” Malfoy said at last, his voice shaky but firm, “He’s all I’ve got in this world, Weasley.”

Oh, he was on about the kid. 

It made Ron feel a bit weird to think of Malfoy’s kid being the centre of his whole world. Although, in his defence, the Malfoy he knew spat the word Mudblood like a curse. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.

Ron wasn’t stupid enough to pretend that Malfoy and this Malfoy were even remotely the same person.

“I don’t want to take him,” Ron lowered his voice to what he hoped came across as soft, “But you gotta see what I’m dealing with from my perspective. If I walk away tonight, and forget all about it, write off the case and what-not, and then come into work a week later to find out that little kid I left in a home with an abusive father is in the hospital with fractured bones—“

”He wouldn’t hurt him!” Malfoy protested furiously, his voice raising slightly before he lowered it again, “He wouldn’t. Scorpius stays out of the way, alright? He doesn’t even talk to him most days. He just bothers with—“

Malfoy seemed to realise what he’d said just before he’d finished speaking. His eyes closed, his body slumping defeatedly. 

“Malfoy, I can’t walk away from this, you understand?” It was only fair to let him know, considering Ron was going to have to pull him and his lad from their beds that night and take them down to the Ministry. Merlin, he was gonna hate himself while he did it, but he had to do it all the same, “Not just because I’m an Auror and it’s literally my job to not walk away from this, but because _morally_ I can’t leave here knowing exactly what I’m leaving behind, alright?”

Malfoy didn’t seem to have any fight left in him, nor the energy to make up excuses for every point Ron was making. His hair ruffled as he nodded an agreement. 

“You need a statement, then?”

This’ll be where it got difficult. Merlin, Ron hated his job sometimes. 

“Unfortunately I’m going to need you to come down to the department to do the write up.” Even Ron winced as Malfoy’s mouth fell open. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I hate to do it as much as you do, but it has to be done.” Ron shrugged, “You’ll have to bring your boy with you too.”

”He just went to sleep!” Malfoy’s eyebrows furrowed as he swallowed, “Surely we can just come down tomorrow.”

They probably could: Robards wouldn’t know any better anyway and no one else would have any idea about the call-in until tomorrow: but Ron didn’t feel right, leaving them here. Granted Malfoy was a right prick at school, but they were all adults now and there was a minor involved too. 

“‘Fraid not. D’ya need any help with anything?” 

Malfoy sighed, shaking his head as he glanced back into the house, “Can’t we just—“

”Malfoy, I need to take you down to the department,” He didn’t, not really, “Or else I’m going to have to take... Scorpius, was it?... down without you. I can’t leave him here, since there’s evidence of violence in the home.” That part was true: Harry had made him read the domestic violence manuals back to front eight times. 

“Alright.” Malfoy bit his lip nervously, “Alright, but you have to stay here. He’s asleep upstairs and I don’t want to wake him.” Ron didn’t need to be a mind reader to know who _he_ was, “I’ll get Scorpius.”

”And a change of clothes.”

Malfoy shut the door in his face after that. 


	2. Chapter 2

Scorpius was a quiet kid. He hadn’t said a word to Ron the whole way here; not that Ron thought he would. He wouldn’t meet Ron’s eyes, either. Just kept his arms locked around Malfoy’s neck and his head tucked into his shoulder. 

There was no chance of mistaking him for someone else’s kid. He shared his father’s hair; stark, white blonde, falling in soft waves around his head. Ron was willing to bet he had the same grey eyes too. His skin was just as pale, but Ron couldn’t see any signs of physical abuse like he could with Malfoy. He was small and skinny. 

Like Malfoy, his clothes weren’t worn or old. No signs of neglect. 

Ron had floo’d Robards when they arrived. He was only a junior Auror until he took his exam in a few months, so he needed his supervisor to, well, supervise. Robards wasn’t happy but he’d get over it. When they’d cut the connection, he’d told Ron he’d be over as quickly as possible and that was that. 

Malfoy hadn’t moved in the thirty minutes he’d been sat on the sofa; Scorpius having shifted onto his lap to hide his face in his father’s chest. Neither said a word the whole time. 

Ron wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. On the one hand, this was _Malfoy_. The same Malfoy that made up that wretched song and those badges about Harry. On the other hand... on the other hand the Malfoy in front of him didn’t resemble that Malfoy at all. This Malfoy was covered in bruises and seemed more skittish. It was hard to differentiate between them, which was probably a reason Ron shouldn’t have been the one taking statements for this case — yet at the same time he’d be damned if he let anyone else do it. While Ron didn’t know him enough to make decisions on Malfoy’s character, he was still _Malfoy_. And Malfoy, well he was always Ron’s. As weird as that sounded. Sure, he and Harry would fight like cat and dog, but it started with Ron and Malfoy. It started with a Weasley and a Malfoy: no matter what anyone else said: so, Ron thought that was exactly why he had to be the one to work this case. 

“Weasley.” Here came the boss, “What’ve we got?”

Ron span around, nodding respectfully to Robards as he pushed himself up from the desk chair and gestures to the two blondes, “Mrs Anthony called in a domestic.”

”That old bat?” Ron’s department were so fond of that woman, couldn’t you tell? “Was she spouting stories again? Tell me you didn’t bring me down here for her made up crap.”

”No sir.” Ron glanced over at Malfoy again, “She mentioned shouting, said it happened often. When I turned up, it was quiet, but...” He nodded towards Malfoy solemnly, “See for yourself.”

Robards sighed, rubbing his jaw as he walked over to where Malfoy was sat with his son. There was no need for introductions, Robards knew who Malfoy was.

Malfoy looked up as they neared them, swallowing thickly. He glanced down at the little boy in his lap before turning his gaze back to Robards. Ron couldn’t remember ever seeing him so uncomfortable, and he went to his trials after the war with Harry. 

Rob watched as Robards took in the bruising on Malfoy’s face and refrained from comment. 

“Mr Malfoy are you alright to talk to us?” Robards asked quietly, keeping his tone hushed. 

Malfoy sighed, shaking his head, “Do we really have to do this now? Scorpius is exhausted.”

”I’m afraid we do have to take a statement now.” Robards didn’t look very apologetic, “And I can’t allow you to go home with your boyfriend in residence.”

”Then where do you suppose I go?” Malfoy snapped, sending a jolt of surprise through Ron. He hadn’t expected that after Malfoy’s demeanour all night. 

“We’ll sort that later. For now,” Robards handed Ron a self-inking-quill and parchment, “let’s get a statement done.” 

* * *

While Malfoy was being cooperative, he was also quite obviously unhappy to be answering questions, and he got fidgety when his boyfriend was brought up. 

So, Ron settled for something more neutral to ease into. Though the knowledge that Robards was on the other side of the glass, watching the entire thing, didn’t make him feel very at ease either.

“You said before that you and your boyfriend had your son naturally.” Tension slipped from Malfoy’s posture as quickly as it’d come. 

“Yes.” Malfoy nodded, “I’m a natural-born carrier.” 

“Does he have your last name, or his?” Malfoy fidgeted again at Ron’s words. His chair creaked as he did so. 

It was quiet for a moment, “Mine.”

”How did your boyfriend feel about that?” Ron asked, “Was he upset?”

Malfoy shook his head, “He didn’t want Scorpius to have his name. He never wants much to do with him.”

”Why’s that?” 

Malfoy shrugged, rustling his hair a little as his shoulders moved. Ron waited for a few minutes, but in the end, Malfoy didn’t answer.

”How old is he?”

Malfoy frowned; the corners of his mouth tilting downwards, “My boyfriend?”

”No,” For some reason Ron felt a smile tug at his mouth at Malfoy’s comment, yet he forced himself to remain impassive, “Scorpius.”

Realisation dawned on Malfoy’s face as he nodded slowly, his mouth opens slightly, “Three. He turns four this year.”

“He seems like a good kid.” Ron glanced over at the conjured arm chair in the corner where Scorpius was sleeping. He had a blanket Ron had fished out of Harry’s locker wrapped around him. 

Malfoy hummed in agreement, “He’s an angel.” His eyes glazed over as he watched his son, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Ron could tell Malfoy loved his kid, and he didn’t doubt: not for one minute: that no harm had ever come to Scorpius under his watch. It made it all a lot easier to prosecute without Child Abuse charges. It made it especially easier on Malfoy, since the defence prosecutors tended to push the blame onto the victim. 

“It can’t be a nice feeling,” Ron kept his eyes glued to Malfoy’s face to watch his reaction, “Having him in a home with your boyfriend. Knowing the slightest mood swing might end up with a Mungo’s visit.”

Malfoy pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, “He wouldn’t hurt him.” 

“You and I both know it only takes a split second.” He watched Malfoy pull his sleeves up to his fingertips, “I can’t imagine there’s ever a moment when you’re not on edge, waiting for the pin to drop.” 

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but Ron could see the growing discomfort.

Ron never liked doing these cases. They got a few of them, surprisingly. Seamus always said he couldn’t understand why people were still treating each other like that, after the war. Surely, they’d all seen enough violence.

It wasn’t the brutality of the crimes that got to Ron. He could deal with bruises, broken bones and fractures. He could even deal with the dead look the victims got about them when they were sat in the hospital rooms, as if their breathing, working bodies weren’t enough to convince their brains of life. The interviews were the worst bit. Most victims of domestic abuse were conditioned to protect their abuser. They never wanted to get them into trouble or press charges, so it was up to the Aurors to convince them. The tactics used to do that made Ron uncomfortable.

Having kids involved in the situation is a blessing and a heartbreak all at once. On a moral, personal level: having kids living in those environments made Ron feel sick. Professionally, kids were the best way of convincing victims to press charges. Maternal and paternal instinct overpowered their loyalty to their abuser in most cases. 

“You love your son, I can see that.” Malfoy swallowed at Ron’s words, keeping his eyes on his son as he fiddled with his sleeves, “You must know that nothing good can come of raising him in a home where his father ends up with bruises every other week.”

”Don’t talk to me about what’s best for my son.” The hiss in Malfoy’s tone surprised Ron slightly, but he did his best not too show it, “Don’t you think I _know_? I know it’s not good for him. I know he deserves something better, something more. I know Matt’s a dick, but I just— “Malfoy cut off with a frustrated sigh. 

So, the boyfriend’s name was Matt. Short for Matthew, maybe? 

Malfoy’s outburst gave Ron a little hope. Obviously, he wasn’t the usual ‘he’ll change one day’ victims they got most cases, and his ‘dick’ comment told Ron he wasn’t under any illusions that this Matt guy was some sort of prince. 

Malfoy lowered his tone again and glared down at the table, “I don’t have anything else.”

Ron found it very hard to believe ‘Mr. Wait Until My Father Hears About This’ had only an abusive boyfriend to turn to. Images of Malfoy Manor flashed to the forefront of his mind. 

 _Professionalism Ronald_. 

“The Malfoy name is dirt now. The wizarding community wants nothing to do with us. I’m sure you’re aware.” Malfoy shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly, “All I’ve got is a crappy boyfriend, a house I didn’t pay for, and my son, Weasley.”

“Would your mother not have you?” Ron asked, “She’s back at Malfoy Manor now, I heard.”

Malfoy scoffed. He lifted his left hand to itch his right wrist and turned his gaze to the glass behind Ron’s head. Ron remembered, fleetingly, that Robards was stood on the other side. 

“My mother loves me.” Malfoy didn’t look too sure about that, “She almost died for me, during the war, multiple times.”

“I remember.” 

“She loves me,” The repetition of it didn’t cement plausibility onto Malfoy’s face, “But she’s a Slytherin through and through. It wouldn’t be good for her... image to be associated with me.” 

There was so many things wrong with that, that Ron was sure his own mother would scream obscenities over for hours. The idea of love being classed as association made Ron feel queasy. 

“What about Scorpius?” He shouldn’t ask: after all it had nothing to do with the case at hand and everything to do with personal matters, “Isn’t she interested in knowing her grandson?”

The smile on Malfoy’s face was nothing short of bitter, “Matt isn’t pureblood, which means neither is Scorpius. You, surely more than anyone else besides Granger, are aware of my family’s opinions toward those without pure blood.”

Oh yes, Ron could imagine. Though, the fact Malfoy recognised his son may never have been accepted in most pureblood circles and yet his love for his son was obvious to anyone looking at him, was a testament to how Malfoy had changed over the years. 

“So you stayed with him over lack of options. If you testify, press charges, we can set you up a flat somewhere.” Ron was pretty sure they could do that, anyway. 

Malfoy shook his head, “Do you really think I didn’t try that? I’m not the type to stay in a shitty situation when I have an alternative.” His eyes flickered to his left arm, “Nobody rents or sells to know Death Eaters.”

“Tell me you’re going to work with us, that you’ll press charges, and I’ll sort it.” Ron glanced between Malfoy and Scorpius, before turning back to hold the eldest blonde’s gaze, “You have my word.”

Malfoy leaned back in the crappy plastic chair he was sat in, lifting his shoulders into a half shrug, “Why not? It’s not like you could make the situation any worse.”


	3. Chapter 3

“All done?” Robards looked up from the case file in his hands as if he hadn’t just spent the past half hour stood behind the interview room’s glass window. He looked rather comfortable, in all fairness. If Ron hadn’t known where Robards had been the past half hour he’d have no reason to believe his supervisor _hadn’t_ been sat at his desk the whole time. 

Ron nodded in reply, placing the parchment with Malfoy’s statement written on it on Robards’ desk. 

“He wrote a statement then?” Robards asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “I didn’t expect him to. Least of all with you.”

"Then why let me take the interview?” Ron questioned sceptically.

Robards shrugged, his Auror robes making a low rustling sound as he did so, “Worth a try, wasn’t it? Will he be pressing charges too?”

"He said he’d let us do whatever we needed.” Ron said, “Which, in Malfoy language, means yes.”

Robards hummed as he read through the statement, his eyes scaling the page thoroughly. Ron was pretty sure he got everything that Malfoy told him written down, but there would need to be follow up interviews to make sure. 

Gulping, Ron glanced around the office at the many certificates framed on the walls, “The thing is...”

"Oh Merlin I’m not going to like this am I?” Robards sighed, sending a fleeting look of exasperation up at Ron before returning to the statement. 

“He needs somewhere to stay. He was living with his boyfriend because he had nowhere else to go.”

Robards lifted a finger to follow along where he was reading, “We can remove the boyfriend from the home.”

”It wouldn’t make a difference.” Ron explained, keeping his tone low enough that Malfoy couldn’t hear him from his seat just outside the office, “It’s in the boyfriend’s name. Nobody sells to—"

"Known Death Eaters.” Robards looked up, frowning, “The war was five years ago. I can’t fathom why people are still holding onto it like that.” With a glance toward the door, he returned to the statement again, “What do you suppose we do with him, then?”

"Safe house, maybe?” 

Robards snorted, not even bothering to look up, “We don’t have the space, and even if we did, I doubt he’d be any safer there than at home.”

Ron was not overjoyed at Robards lack of faith in his Aurors ability to be professional. He’d given Malfoy his word they’d take care of him, he couldn’t go back on it. No matter their history he’d promised to keep him and his boy safe. What kind of person, kind of man, would he be if we went back on that?

With a wince pulling at his face, Ron cleared his throat, “I could... I mean I’ve got space.”

Robards looked up at him with a stunned expression, as if it were completely abhorrent he’d be willing to house someone at his own place. Or maybe it was just that he was willing to house _Malfoy_ at his place. He could see why that would be surprising; Ron was kind of surprised too. 

“You’re sure?” As thankful Ron was that his supervisor was willing to give him an out of a situation he got himself into, he knew there was only one answer to that question. 

He nodded, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as if he didn’t care either way, “I live alone, got no kids and spend most of my time at work. My flat’s big enough.”

Robards watched him for a minute, keeping his gaze locked on Ron intensely enough that Ron started to feel rather fidgety after thirty second of it, “Alright Weasley. He goes home with you, that means you’re responsible for him and the little lad until the case is over. Understood?”

"Yes sir.” 

“Well then,” Robards said, throwing a hand in the direction of the door, “Get out of here and take them home. We’ll sort the paperwork out Wednesday. Stay home tomorrow to get them settled in.”

Ron nodded, though slightly confused as to why he needed to help Malfoy settle in. The man wasn’t an invalid. 

Robards frowned at him, “Go on then.” 

Oh, right. 

“Night sir.” Ron said as he walked to the door. 

* * *

Malfoy was half asleep, curled up on the uncomfortable, plastic waiting chair with Scorpius laid across his lap. His hair was a mess, strands sticking out at random angles. His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed peacefully. One arm was thrown across Scorpius so that it wrapped around the little boy’s waist, while the other hand stroked through his hair slowly. Though Malfoy looked peaceful, Ron was aware: after knowing the blonde since he was eleven: his whole being was wrought with tension. 

“Malfoy.” Ron kept his tone low to avoid waking Scorpius, “Are you ready to go?”

There were a few seconds of silence before Malfoy’s lips parted to reply, “Well,” his tongue darted  out to wet his lips, “That would depend on where I’m going.”

There wasn’t much Ron could say to that, since he’d probably think along the same lines were it him (if that didn’t throw him off his game nothing would) and it’s not as if the Aurors has given him much reason to trust them over the years. 

“You’re going to have to stay with me,” Ron rushed to give an explanation, “We’re out of spaces in our safe houses.” 

Malfoy didn’t answer, and Ron was starting to get irritated with how the blonde wouldn’t look at him. Here he was, offering his home as a refuge, asking nothing in return, and Malfoy wouldn’t even look at him. 

Scorpius shifted, and Malfoy’s eyes swung open. Of course, he didn’t look at Ron, only down to his kid, but Ron took it as an improvement. 

“So...” This was not going well at all, “Shall we go?”

Malfoy — _finally_ — looked at him, an un-bothered expression fluttering across his face, “Let’s.”

* * *

Let it be made very clear, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Ron’s flat. He wasn’t a professional decorator, but he didn’t live in squalor.

His living room was functional. He had these nice, grey sofas that Mione helped pick out when he first moved in. He’d managed to gather pillows over the years: mismatched colours, sure, but it’s not like they made the place look trashy. There was a nice fireplace, with pictures of his family on the mantel piece. He had curtains, not blinds, and a large, fluffy grey carpet tucked just underneath the corners of the two sofas. He had a grey arm chair opposite the sofas. A lamp on each end table.

His kitchen was great too, by the way. It all being open plan: the kitchen and the living room: didn’t make it look _bad_. The counters were a nice coloured wood; very sturdy and reliable even after three years of living here. The counter tops were black, and the counters formed a slight barrier between kitchen and living room by curving around the corner by around three metres. The floor was tiled, as kitchens usually were, and he had a table with four chairs in the middle of the room. 

It was all very... _nice_. 

Ron knew that. He was confident in his living accommodations. There was absolutely no reason for him to be feeling any negative emotions toward it at all. 

Yet, apparently the look on Malfoy’s face as he stepped out of the floo was enough to throw all that knowledge out the window. He shouldn’t have cared what Malfoy thought about the place. Why would he? He didn’t live his life to impress Draco bloody Malfoy. 

“I hope you’re a better Auror than you are an interior decorator.” Was all Malfoy said, and while his snide comments showed he had more of a backbone than Ron saw earlier on that night, the upturn of his nose made Ron wonder why he didn’t leave him at the Auror department with Robards.

But Ron liked to believe he’d grown up over the years. He liked to believe he no longer had the emotional range of a teaspoon (as lovely Mione liked to say) and was well aware that tonight may have left Malfoy feeling out of sorts. Malfoy’s first resort to feeling out of sorts had always been to lash out like a wild animal caged into a corner. 

“I’ll take you to the guest room.” Ron gestured to the door, starting on his way out of it before remembering the small child Malfoy had with him. As much as Ron was sure Malfoy would hate it, Malfoy didn’t look like he had the upper body strength to be carrying a kid around at the moment: even if the child was just three, “Do you want me to take him?”

He nodded to the sleeping child in Malfoy’s arms. Honestly, Ron was as confused as much as he was unnaturally proud Scorpius had managed to sleep all the way through everything that had happened that night. 

Malfoy frowned, his grip on his son tightening, “I’m perfectly capable.” 

Ron was too tired to argue with him, “This way then.” 

He could imagine the distaste on Malfoy’s face as they walked toward the guest bedroom but tried to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut at the image. 

Ron pushed open the door to the guest bedroom and stepped inside. He could already tell, considering nothing else was, that it wouldn’t be up to Malfoy’s taste. 

The bed was big enough for him and Scorpius, but there wasn’t silk sheets or feather pillows. There was space to put clothes but no walk-in closet. Ron knew, even without looking at him, that the minute he stepped foot into the room he’d turn his nose up at it. 

As irritating as it was, it was strangely reassuring that despite everything that happened to him over the years — whatever that may be — Malfoy’s _refined_ palate stuck with him. Even if it did give Ron a few knocks to his self-confidence. Once a snob, always a snob, ay?

"The bathroom’s down the hall,” He wouldn’t like that either, since it was a shared bathroom that Ron never usually had to, you know, _share_ , “you can use whatever you want from there. I’ve got shampoo and toothpaste, spare toothbrushes and stuff.” Ron rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “There’s a bath in there, and a shower. Well I suppose it’s more like a combination of both—"

"Weasley.” Malfoy interrupted sternly, causing Ron to spin around to look at him. 

Malfoy was stood the the right of Ron, Scorpius held tight against his chest; his eyes surveying the room intricately, “Yeah?”

"Goodnight.” 

That was a clear dismissal if Ron had ever heard one, and he sure as hell wasn't going to stick around to make the situation even more awkward. 

The first thing that ran through his mind after closing the guest bedroom door behind him was, _what_ _is Harry going to think_? Until he remembered Harry was off having a baby and most likely wouldn’t care much in the grand scheme of things. 

Also, it was Harry’s fault Ron was even on duty that night. Anything that happened after Harry ran out on him was on Harry. 

Yeah, that’s what Ron’ll do. Harry’s fault. 


End file.
